


No More Heroes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, F/M, Health, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Johnlock established, M/M, Paralysis, Paternal Lestrade, Physical Disability, Shoot-out, case-fic, wheelchair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meeting Sherlock Holmes offered all that his months in London had failed to provide and all of a sudden, John felt like he was six again, staring up at his Dad with complete and utter awe and trust and an overwhelming pride in the hero before him. Sherlock Holmes was a drug, an addiction to replace the monotony and John fell deeply in love with every inch of him.</p><p>Sherlock, for his part, was as reciprocal as he could be, given his nature. In his fashion, there was a love for John inside of him, too, a need to be with the man who had waltzed into his life and made it stable, made it possible to find somebody who accepted him, flaws and perfections inclusive, without question or demand.</p><p>They say you shouldn’t make people into heroes...</p><p>For what they meant to one another, they cancelled out their need for something heroic - there were no more heroes of intent, just people in the right place, at the right time, for the right reasons promising that no matter what the other needed, they were there to break the monotony, to be necessary and still, somehow, be <em>heroic.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you who read the revised post of this will recognise the story line. I've worked on rewriting NMH since I began it last summer and, finally, have found a groove in the first few chapters that I'm happy with. So consider this the definitive repost and draft of the story that I'm posting up AS A WORK IN PROGRESS because I adore the story and because since taking it down many people have contacted me on here and Tumblr asking where it disappeared to. I reiterate, it is a WIP now and will be added to when I find the time; no longer being a jobless bum makes it hard to sit down and write as productively as I did before but I hope that the changes I've made and will post up will be enough to keep you around for when I do post new parts to the story so many of you were kind enough to contact me and tell me you loved.

They say that you shouldn’t make people into heroes because they only let you down.

John Watson had heroes growing up and was lucky enough never to be let down by them. Some people might even have considered him to be a hero, going off to war and bearing the brunt of open fire on the camp’s hospital. John wouldn’t consider himself a hero, nor would he consider the work he did before his medical discharge from the Army to be heroic - he’d tell people he was doing what was necessary, doing what had to be done for the greater good. There was no sense in it, no glory in it, but it was vital that he did it. He wouldn’t call it heroism, just necessity. Heroes, to John, were the medical men and women who ensured the injury to his shoulder didn’t mean permanent disability beyond a few aches and pains.

Then again, it is commonly believed that the measure of a man is in the company he keeps, that the people he surrounds himself with define who he is and are a projection of who he wants to be. John fought hard not to surround himself with anyone in while in the military despite his personality, he fought to hide his sexuality and, since leaving, had fought ten times harder to hide the solder in him. When he returned to London after his injuries, John didn’t think he’d ever be able to have faith in anything like he had when he was a child. He’d seen things, experienced things, that nobody should ever have to face in their life. He became a version of the person he never wanted to be or be surrounded by.

And then there was Sherlock Holmes.

Dark curls, piercing eyes and a smile that was rarely genuine but always enigmatic, Sherlock encapsulated for John what he had begun to miss about his ‘necessities’ of Army life. Medical discharge was all well and good for being out of the line of fire but John Watson was an Army man, used to the routine and the dramatic need for vigilance. Meeting Sherlock Holmes offered all that his months in London had failed to provide and all of a sudden, John felt like he was six again, staring up at his Dad with complete and utter awe and trust and an overwhelming pride in the hero before him.

Sherlock Holmes was a drug, an addiction to replace the monotony and John fell deeply in love with every inch of him.

Sherlock, for his part, was as reciprocal as he could be, given his nature. In his fashion, there was a love for John inside of him, too, a need to be with the man who had waltzed into his life and made it stable, made it possible to find somebody who accepted him, flaws and perfections inclusive, without question or demand.

They say you shouldn’t make people into heroes...

For what they meant to one another, they cancelled out their need for something heroic - there were no more heroes of intent, just people in the right place, at the right time, for the right reasons promising that no matter what the other needed, they were there to break the monotony, to be necessary and still, somehow, be _heroic._

It was in 2010, a year after Sherlock and John had settled into something akin to a monogamous relationship, when their world was shattered into thousands of tiny, sharp pieces by the acts of a man who had lost all control, one wet, November night in Soho...

Leaving Baker Street together, John hailed himself and Sherlock a taxi bound for Scotland Yard in search of Lestrade. Once again, Mycroft had summonsed Sherlock to his aid with a case and, to prove his worth as was his wont, Sherlock had snatched it up out of the sheer need for something to do. Sherlock’s relationship with Greg Lestrade, that spanned almost a decade, opened up doors for him within the Met and he took advantage of the links whenever he needed to, just as Lestrade would come to him, cap in hand, when his team were stumped. Mycroft’s case was shrouded in mystery and presented potential national security risks wrapped up in a drugs trafficking circle - Sherlock was determined to shut it down as quickly as possible and needed to obtain a warrant or police escort to a top-floor flat on Northumberland Street.

“I’m not sure about this, Sherlock.” John sighed, staring out of the window onto the wet street as the taxi bumbled along the road, the rain hitting the glass and splintering out like spider legs in the glow of the orange street lights outside.

Of course, John’s concerns were met with a wall of nominal silence from Sherlock whose feet tapped impossibly quickly in a random rhythm as his dexterous thumbs tapped out text after text on his damnable Blackberry.

It took little persuasion on Sherlock’s part to have Lestrade accompanying him to the flat when they arrived at The Yard, but the forensic team that accompanied the DI were less than enthusiastic to be pursuing another ‘hunch’ from Lestrade’s ‘care in the community project’. Under Greg’s orders, the property was searched thoroughly. Sherlock stated that they were looking for any indication as to who was using the building and for what; drugs, computers, anything that would help stem the stream of ideas in his mind and alone him to hone in on one, sure track to ensure a successful closure of the case and that euphoric, settled feeling in his mind that came with the assurance that a case had been closed by his sought-after abilities.

When an hour and a half of combing the small space turned up nothing, Lestrade called the search off with finality, glancing at Sherlock’s petulantly pouting lips. “I can’t magic evidence into existence, Sherlock,” he muttered, shaking his head though there was a fatherly amusement to his tone. There was always a fatherly-something when he was with Sherlock - seven years and nine months with the man whom he had seen at his best, worst and somewhere inbetween served to turn Sherlock into something close to a son, something closer than he’d ever had in his life at least.

“I didn’t ask you to, Detective,” Sherlock’s tongue was sharp and bitter and Lestrade simply rolled his eyes, more than used to the man he’s seen turn from a twenty-something, dependant on drugs, alcohol and the promiscuous lifestyle he’d fallen into - a thirty year old man with a partner and, by all accounts, a rocketing career as a Private Detective.

“C’mon,” Lestrade nodded to the doorway which led to the staircase that granted access to the street, “I’m off in an hour, you and John come back to the station with me and then we can go and grab dinner.”

Sherlock looked to John, standing behind Lestrade, and stuffed his hands into his pockets as his attention was momentarily stolen to watch the various members of Lestrade’s team who were filtering out of the flat, “I’m not hungry,” he grumbled into the upturned collar of his coat.

“I don’t care about you,” Greg muttered, “I’m starving.”

“Sounds great,” John stepped in, casting a look of annoyance at Sherlock, “I’ll follow you down now,” he indicated as Lestrade turned to leave.

Sherlock loitered behind, with only Sally Donovan still left lingering, as John and Lestrade clambered noisily down the uncarpeted stairs that led them back out onto the cold, wet street. “Freak,” Sally snapped, “We’re leaving so you are no longer authorised to be here; beat it.”

“Pleasantly put as always, Sally,” Sherlock cocked his eyebrow as he smiled at her with sickening sweetness, but conceded to her demand, preceding her down the stairs and out into the rainy night. He glanced around, the street illuminated by intermittent street lights, trying to locate John and Lestrade. It took a moment to find them, at the far end of the street, both about to climb into the DI’s aging but reliable, silver car.

“Sherlock,” John called out, waving his arm to catch his attention. “You coming?”

“Right behind you,” Sherlock called back, which seemed to annoy the shorter man as he shook his head and slipped into Lestrade’s car without another word.

Sherlock watched the car pull away, the red reverse lights glistening in the rain, and waited for Sally to reappear. She approached a young man - a new Sergeant named Hawkes whom Sherlock had met earlier that evening - and pointed him toward the waiting car on the corner of the street, adjacent to Angelo’s restaurant. “Oi, Freak,” She called out, smiling with a sharkey quality at Sherlock as he watched her. “We’re going back to Scotland Yard, are you walking or getting in?”

Sherlock bunched up his shoulders and began walking toward her as she approached the car. He wet his lips with his tongue and reached out his right hand to pull open the left door so he could slip into the warmth of the back seat. The latch clicked, the noise muffled in the rain that began to fall heavier and a blustering wind that was slowly picking up speed.

“Fucking awful night,” Hawkes commented, reaching for the handle on the drivers side door. “You pick ‘em, don’t you Mr ‘olmes.” he smiled at the brooding man over the roof of the car, “Couldn’t have brought us out on a drier night or anythin’,” he grinned.

“Indeed not,” Sherlock’s nose crinkled and a hint of a smile took his lips, “Where’s the fun in that?” He asked, crooking an eyebrow, “The thrill of the case is intensified by a bit of suff....”

And suddenly the night went silent but for ringing of three, successive gunshots. Sherlock tumbled forwards, his collarbone hittin the body of the car before his knees went weak and he crumbled to the floor, falling onto his back, his head hitting the cobbled road, leaving his body sprawled across the wet street. Hawkes rushed to his side and, possibly inappropriately, gently pulled Sherlock’s body away from the car to give him and Sally better access and they both crouched at his side.

They couldn’t see the bullets anywhere, hadn’t heard the tinkle of metal as they hit the ground, but it was pretty obvious why; Sherlock was injured and two, thin trails of blood drew a line on the cobbles from where Hawkes had dragged him half a foot across them. He’d been shot in the back and in the thigh and both wounds were oozing blood. Sally’s knees leaned painfully on the cobbles and she glanced across Sherlock’s lifeless body at Hawkes, “Fucking hell...” she breathed out, “...what just happened?”

“We need to call this in, get hold of Lestrade,” Hawkes paced beside her, his hands in his wet hair as he he thought frantically. It had been some time since he’d been confronted with anything like this.

“Let’s just sort him out, he’s bleeding, we need to...” she leaned over Sherlock and turned her head to the side so that her ear hovered over the Consulting Detective’s mouth. “Oh, thank God!” she sighed, “Charlie, he’s breathing.” she informed her colleague.

“Christ,” Hawkes rubbed his hands over his face, spreading the raindrops, “That’s nothin’ short of fuckin’ miraculous.” he crouched at Sherlock’s other side, “Is he conscious?”

Sally seemed to lose herself staring at Sherlock but came back to the question after a moment, “In and out - his eyes are fluttering but his pulse is steady. He’s losing a lot of blood,” she glanced at the Sergeant again. “He’s trembling, give me your coat.” She held out her hand as Hawkes removed his coat and passed it over. Sally carefully wrapped it around Sherlock’s torso and crudely tucked it around his shoulders and arms before reaching for her radio. “Lestrade? We need an ambulance on Northumberland Street; there’s been gunfire, Sir. Sherlock Holmes is injured.”

_“What?”_

“He was hit by at least two bullets - and there’s a possible head injury. He’s bleeding badly.”

_“I thought you were right behind us, Sally, in the car?”_

“We were just coming when the shots were fired. Lestrade, we need an ambulance, it’s serious - he’s got two, possibly three bullets in his back! Make sure Doctor Watson get’s to whichever hospital the ambulance is going to.”

_“Right, OK, we’re on it. I’ll drive John. Just stay with Sherlock, OK? You and Charlie, you stay with him - don’t leave his side.” ___

__Sally’s voice wavered when she finally replied, “Yes Sir.” She pushed the radio into her coat pocket and busied herself tucking the coat in tighter around Sherlock’s paling body; his lips were turning purple, his skin impossibly white. She stole a look at Charlie and his face matched what she assumed her look like - an unnerving concoction of confusion and terror._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazed at the response, thank you so much.

The hospital waiting area was sparse and clinical, brightly lit by overhead strip-lighting that buzzed and flickered occasionally. It was nauseating and headache-inducing and John couldn’t help but consider that it was still acceptable: it was the norm of every NHS hospital across the country, wasn’t it, to have uncomfortable chairs, inadequate coffee, nauseating smells of disinfectant while the hospital still crawled with bacteria and an alarmingly low ratio of staff to patients? To John, all hospitals were matched in their disappointment, so why would the QE be any different just because Sherlock had been admitted? It disgusted him to think of all that was available to the NHS and yet the standards were increasingly poor; he’d been part of a medical team in Afghanistan and had coped infinitely better; what right did they have?

Exhaling loudly, he rested his head back against the wall his seat lined and closed his eyes to the tension that bared down on his skull. He didn’t know anything about Sherlock’s condition, there had been no nurse to update them, no briefing from the medical staff of any, real substance. All he knew was what he’d heard crackle through the radio in Lestrade’s car from Donovan; Sherlock had been shot and it was serious. He opened his eyes, staring at the crisp, white ceiling tiles and sharp lights above his head and asked himself all the questions he couldn’t answer: what now, how’s Sherlock, what’s next, will he recover?

Beside John, Lestrade’s feet mapped out unpatterned taps and he sighed, his cheeks puffed up dramatically. He’d taken John straight to the Queen Elizabeth after calling for the ambulance to join the scene for Sally and Charlie and hadn’t left his side since. They’d inhaled cups of coffee, Greg had smoked cigarettes he’d promised himself he’d never touch but still kept in his coat pocket, and then they had both descended into a thick, tense silence that neither knew how to fill. What words could, anyway?

He clasped his hands into his lap to prevent more nervous ticking, “God, what’s taking them so long?” he frowned, his chest aching as he sighed again, and ran his left hand through his silver hair. “I thought there’d at least have been an update, he’s been in surgery for hours.” John raised his eyebrows silently in reply and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know how to answer; he didn’t know what was happening to be able to brief the DI on how long it would take and he wasn’t sure that if he opened his mouth that he would be able to find words anyway. Greg got to his feet, his shoes squeaking against the polished white tiles and began to pace with his hands pushed deeply into his trouser pockets so that his shoulders bunched up. The air conditioning above his head made the hospital cool and did work a little to relax his tense shoulders. “Did you reach Mycroft when you called?”

“Yeah...” John broke his silence and scrubbed his hands across his face, running the brief call over in his mind...

_

“Yes?”

“Mycroft, it’s John. John Watson.”

“Mobile phones are accompanied by built-in caller ID, John. I know who you are, the question is what do you want?”

“There’s been an accident.”

“Yes?”

“Sherlock’s in surgery at the QE - he was shot.”

_

“I had kind of hoped I’d be able to leave a message but he picked up. I didn’t elaborate I just - just said he’d been shot.” He looked up at the DI through scared eyes and found that Greg’s brown stare matched his.

Halting his pacing, Greg pulled his hands from his pockets and folded them across his chest, “Did Charlie or Sally mention anything, did they say what happened?” He asked, uneasy in his tone and stance, “I know Dimmock interviewed them briefly at the station when they got back but I was here, so...” He shrugged his shoulders as he trailed off.

“I haven’t spoken to them, Greg. You know I haven’t.” John sighed his response and widened his eyes, then rolled them back into his head as he felt them heat up, tears brimming that he didn’t want to shed. “I only heard what you did and...and she told you over the radio that it was three bullets, yes? Bullets, Greg, in his back! I just - I want to see him, I want know what the damage is, what to expect. I can’t use the medical side of my brain until I know what I’m up against which just leaves me with the side of my brain that loves him more than anything, that’s consumed by spousal guilt.” he held his breath, his tongue pointed and resting on his top lip as the tears won their fight and began to trickle into his lashes and down his cheeks, “I need to know what’s going to happen from here,” He stared up at the DI.

“I know,” Greg stepped closer to John and sunk back into the chair beside him with his hand resting on John’s tense, trembling shoulder. “If the bullets have hit his spine,” Greg began as calmly as he could make his voice, “He could be paralysed.”

He sounded terrified, hating to admit the words, but when John nodded his agreement, confirming that he was thinking that too, it felt a little less harsh to be the one delivering the verdict. Greg had been around the block enough times to know what shootings like this could do to the victims. He kept his eyes on John, even as he drew back his hand and rested them on his lap while his mind swam with a million ‘what ifs’. John swiped his hands across his face, brushing the tears from his cheeks even as his eyes filled with more, and willed them away. Crumbling wasn’t an option, he couldn’t fall to pieces; Sherlock needed him.

“I’m going to question Charlie and Sally myself, I’ll see what I can draw from them. I’ll get everything I can, John and we’ll find out how it happened and get the son of a bitch.” Greg promised with conviction as John leaned forward, arms on his knees and his spine curved forwards at such an angle it made Greg wince.

“I know,” John cut in as he got to his feet, hands pushing into his pockets as he paced in a similar fashion to the way the DI had moments before. “I know, and thanks.” He was serious - he was thankful for Greg’s promises, for his conviction and his presence, but he knew that nothing would happened: something inside of John told him that nobody knew a thing - the world was blind, deaf and dumb - and he couldn’t allow himself the rose-tinted, naive belief that this case would be easily solved and closed with a cathartic experience for all involved. There would be no closure, he was sure of it.

Greg rested back into the uncomfortable chair and watched John’s nervous pacing. He needed to leave but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t do that to John or Sherlock. He had been through so much with Sherlock since meeting him in his early twenties - there’d been many hospital and clinical visits throughout their relationship, almost all of them had included the same sense of doom and pain he felt now. He wasn’t entirely sure he had it in him to go through it again. He got to his feet, considering that freshening up in the toilets around the corner would help, and stopped after two steps when John reached out and grabbed his arm.

Looking first to John’s face, Greg followed his line of vision until his eyes landed upon two men in green scrubs walking towards them. His stomach clenched and he could feel John’s trembling right to his fingertips.

“Doctor Watson?” The younger of the two men asked as Greg and John edged back nervously to their seats and the two doctors sat down in front of them.

“Yes,” John croaked then coughed lightly, clearing his throat. “Sorry, yes.”

The young surgeon smiled softly at him and nodded, “I’m Rick Chancellor and this is Alec Palmer, we led the surgical team for Mr Holmes,” the man’s face was kind but John and Greg found it impossible to find it comforting. “The surgery was successful; there was a small amount of internal bleeding caused by a tear in the muscle of the left thigh where the bullet entered but this has been repaired, the bullet has been removed and a drain has been inserted to prevent further complications. Removing the two bullets that entered the spinal column, however, did prove to be a more intricate maneuver - remarkably, there was no major damage to any of his internal organs. His left kidney was grazed as one of the bullets that passed through his spine and moved, but it wasn’t perforated and so far both kidneys have shown no decrease in ability to function.” 

Though Rick gave a soft, encouraging smile both Greg and John knew something more serious was coming and braced themselves for it.

“However, the muscle damage caused by the bullets is extensive and the damage to the spinal cord is great. Though we cannot say for certain until he has woken and been assessed more thoroughly on his motor skills, it would be realistic to assume, given the damage, that Mr Holmes will not regain full mobility.” He drew in a deep breath.

“Paraplegia?” John asked, bluntly and openly, his voice firm and authoritative.

“Taking into account the precise nature of Sherlock’s injury, what we call a T12-L1 spinal cord injury, we would anticipate complete paralysis from the lower back, yes.” Doctor Palmer picked up in place of his younger colleague.

Greg inhaled sharply and his eyes quickly felt hot with tears but he held strong. At his side, John was silent and still. They had expected this, known it was the only outcome, but the truth in words was a painful blow. And now they sat, stunned and frightened, and considered that the world had turned and they had been thrown off with vigour.

“You’ll assess his kidneys over the next few days, in case of issues?” John cleared his throat, his voice strained despite the action. 

“He’ll be catheterised for the next twenty-four hours at least and continuously if paralysis is present; his urine output will be measured, as will his fluid intake, and we’ll be able to assess him that way, yes. An ultrasound of his kidneys in a day or two will also give us a view of how well they’re functioning.” Doctor Palmer explained. John nodded silently, trying to absorb it all. 

They were given time for the news to settle in - though it was hard to make sense of - before they were guided by a young, rotund female nurse to the surgical ICU to see Sherlock under strict instructions to be as quiet as possible. The small room that Sherlock was held it was without a door or even a curtain for privacy but was silent to noise and alive with electrical appliances: beeps and and pulses battled to be heard over the low, static hum that filled the room. There was a dim light in the corner that seemed to glow a spooky blue rather than a crisp white and illuminated the room just enough to make Sherlock out while casting frightening shadows across the angles of the man’s face.

The bed was raised high and lay completely flat, the rails at the sides pulled up and made safe with colourful, padded guards to prevent injury. With his curls pushed back from his face and his body nude to the waist before disappearing beneath a blue, cotton blanket, Sherlock looked like a two-year-old swaddled in a cot. His head was held still by a neck brace and straps that all but tethered him to the bed, his skin so pale he seemed translucent and the light dusting of gingery freckles that covered his almost hairless chest were invisible beneath the pads of the heart monitor.

Various, curious machines lined the sides of the bed with wires that attached to Sherlock in places across his body: a drip for fluids and antibiotics, a pulse-ox clip on his finger, the heart monitor with it’s jagged lines on the screen and the lines of a catheter and the drain that disappeared beneath the blankets. But Greg’s eyes were drawn to Sherlock’s face, cut and beginning to bruise, partially obscured by an oxygen mask that fogged and cleared as he breathed unsteadily but deeply.

John got as close to Sherlock as the bed allowed, reaching over the padded guards to take hold of Sherlock’s hand as tightly as he could before the fear of breaking him took over. Sherlock’s lashes fluttered against his cheeks and his hand twitched around John’s as though he were attempting to grip John back just as tightly. John knew, though, that between the medication and anesthetic and the head injury that Sally had mentioned, Sherlock wouldn’t feel much like waking up and communicating and John didn’t envy him the fuzziness he knew he would feel in his head.

“Hey,” John’s whispering voice was low and sweet, soft and gentle, and Greg watched them intently from the foot of the bed, his hands in his coat pockets. He wanted to touch Sherlock, to feel that he was real, but he couldn’t; he had known Sherlock for so many years and this was killing him - seeing the man he’d taken under his wing splayed out on a bed, injured beyond repair, left him feeling like a bereft father. “It’s OK, it’s going to be alright - Greg and I are right here.”

John’s tone and words were so gentle and sincere that he felt as though he was intruding upon an intimate moment. The world didn’t get to see this, the loving, relationship moments between them - the Yard was never privy to the tender, personal moments - and Greg felt his heart beat a little faster and a drop of relief in his stomach to see confirmation of what he’d always suspected of the two: the Army Doctor and the Consulting Detective were as in love as any couple could be.

Sherlock gave a soft, echoic whimper behind the oxygen mask followed by a bubbled groan deep in his throat. He moved his head a tiny fraction, a half-snuggle into the restraints and a half-hearted attempt at pulling away from them. John placated him quickly, reaching up with his left hand to softly touch against Sherlock’s cheek whilst keeping his right hand tightly locked around Sherlock’s. “Shh, it’s OK, it’s alright. I’ll explain everything when you’re feeling better. Just relax - shh, go back to sleep.”

When John peered over his shoulder, searching Greg out, the DI couldn’t fail to spot the tears in his eyes. “What do you need me to do, John?” His voice was small and husky, pushing past the emotion building in his throat and barely escaping his lips.

John inhaled deeply and tried to look and sound braver than he felt. "Could you go to the flat?" he asked and Greg gave a swift nod. "Just pack a bag - changes of clothes, raid the bathroom cabinet, my phone charger...anything you see and think we might need for a couple of days, then when he's settled I can come and go a bit more freely. I just want to be able to stay for now." He licked his bottom lip and tried to access the rational side of his overwrought brain. "If you get stuck, just ask Mrs Hudson..." he pointed to the doorway of the cubicle, to a plastic chair that was draped with John's coat. "The key's in my pocket."

Greg strode quickly across to the chair and dug around in John’s coat to find the keys. Turning the cold keys over in his large hand, Greg lifted his gaze back to John and couldn’t miss the subtle but definite shift in his expression, “John?” he frowned, “What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s just-,” John sighed, “Baker Street. We’re going to have to leave, aren’t we?” Something very close to fear pattered across John’s face.

“No,” Greg jumped in dismissively, “Not necessarily, I’m sure there are things that can be done,” he shrugged his shoulders, “Stairlifts or something; get Occupational Health in to jig things up and the job’s a gooden.” The smile that accompanied Greg’s words was as hopeful as he could make it.

“No,” John shook his head, resigned, “Not in places like that.” He closed his eyes and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue as his head lulled back heavily on his shoulders. When he opened his eyes again, he straightened his neck and focused his eyes on Sherlock.

Greg could see John wanted to say much more but daren’t. He took a deep breath and sighed, the sound of his exhale lost into the static, electric hum that filled the room, and pushed the keys into his pocket. “I’ll be a phone call away, John. If there’s anything you need just ring and I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks Greg,” John nodded slowly without looking around at the DI.

Greg approached the bed nervously and drew his hand from his pocket to reach down, fingers quivering, and touch Sherlock’s bare arm. “We’re doing everything we can, Sherlock, OK? Just get some rest and get better, alright?” He retracted his hand quickly and turned, his body stiff, and left John alone with Sherlock.

Watching the DI leave with a crane to his neck, John felt his tears welling thicker and faster: despite appearances, so many people held onto something special when it came to Sherlock. John may just belong to Sherlock, but Sherlock had a little piece of himself somehow invested in everyone he met, despite whether they were amicable or not - something in people just couldn't help it.

Alone, scared and painfully vulnerable, John let his tears fall with Sherlock's hand gripped tightly in his. He wasn't Doctor Watson or Captain Watson - there was no social propriety or keeping up of appearances anymore; he was John Watson, grieving and frightened. It took it's toll and the tears were hard to stop, but he managed to rein his emotions in after ten minutes or so. The emotion wasn't gone, the pain no less, but the urgency of his sadness had eased. He could be stronger now - he had to be, because what else was there to do but be strong?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liberties taken in assigning Mrs Hudson a first name. Thank you again for the positivity.

Time moved on, descending into the hours that were relative as it became that funny time that could be considered both ‘too early’ and ‘too late’, and all the while the ice-cold rain continued to thunder down upon the streets. Greg stopped the car in Baker Street outside of 221. The light was on in the hallway, shining through the glass arch above the black door, and Greg didn't doubt that Mrs Hudson was pacing inside, wearing the carpet away with worry. She'd known Sherlock for some years - they'd met on a case not long after Lestrade had met Sherlock himself - and he knew that despite Sherlock's age, Mrs Hudson had done almost the same as he had and grown fond of the tall, thin, enigmatic man in a familial, maternal way. He climbed out of the car and into the wet night, racing to the door, and unlocked it as quietly and quickly as he could, stepping in out of the rain. He groaned as he felt the droplets tumble beneath the collar of his coat and into his shirt.

He looked up, hearing a click and rattling of chains down the small hallway to the right of the stairs that led up into 221B, and wasn't surprised a bit when the door dragged open to reveal Mrs Hudson's ashen face, eyes alive with worry, dressed in her nightwear and dressing gown. John had called her on his way to the hospital, telling her Sherlock had been injured and he'd be in touch, but he couldn't recall him ever phoning her back and her fear was obvious.

"Detective Inspector," She straightened and stepped into the hallway, pulling her dressing gown a little tighter around her body. "I thought you might have been John."

Greg's lips thinned into a smile but it didn't touch his dark eyes, "He's with Sherlock - he's out of surgery and is in the ICU. John asked me to come and pick some things up for them, I didn't mean to disturb you." He apologised, feeling embarrassed at how unprofessional he felt.

"How is he?" Her hand flew to her chin in dismay, "Do they know what's happened yet, if he's going to be alright?" Her eyes search him for truth.

Greg sighed and shrugged up his shoulders. How was he supposed to tell her? What was he supposed to say? He looked at her, blinking and opening and closing his mouth wordlessly, his eyes threatening to shed tears.

"Detective Inspector," Mrs Hudson stepped toward him, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Greg's sigh was loud and his shoulders dropped as a small surge of tension fell from his body, "Please." He nodded his head quickly and followed behind her with heavy strides.

Mrs Hudson's own little, private corner of the multi-storied Baker Street house was everything Greg had expected it to be and yet nothing like he'd imagined. It was warm, inviting, modest and cosy but not chintzy or too like an 'old woman'. She pointed him to a small, two-seater sofa as she led him into the lounge that joined seamlessly with a small kitchen. Greg smiled gratefully as he sat down and glanced around the room.

"Sugar?"

Nodding, Greg pushed his eyebrows up to try and look less severe, "Yes - one. Thanks."

A moment later, she joined him on the sofa with a small tray holding two, delicate teacups and a jug of milk. "I'm sorry," she said softly and pointed him toward the tray as she set it on the coffee table, allowing him to help himself to milk. "I don't have any of those mugs that the boys use upstairs; much too chunky for me."

"The cup is perfect, Mrs Hudson." He dismissed her softly as he took a sip.

“Oh, Laurel, please. Laurel.” She insisted, smiling delicately at him.

Greg returned the smile as honestly as he could, repeating her name, aware that before now he’d never even contemplated her being anything other than _Mrs. Hudson_. “Laurel.” 

A silence fell between them, stopped from descending too far only by the clock on the wall above the door. Greg drank his warm drink gratefully, glad to finally be feeling warm from the cold outside. A small amount of peace settle into him for the first time in hours and he sighed at the momentary contentment.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mrs Hudson spoke up.

"Greg," he insisted and she smiled.

"Greg," She repeated with a nod, her hands clasped around the teacup. "Tell me honestly about Sherlock, please?"

Nodding, Greg took a deep breath and licked his lips. He placed the cup onto the table and straightened his back, trying to drum up his professionalism. "He was involved in a shooting this evening and multiple shots were fired, all of which caused him injury. The bullets have been removed in surgery and he is in the intensive care unit recovering well. But the damage caused to his spine by the bullets was extensive and they don't think...the doctors don't believe that it is possible for him to regain the ability to m-move his legs." He swallowed hard, watching her face as her brow creased deeply, "They are pretty certain that he'll be paralysed."

Her eyes closed as her right hand came to her face in dismay. Part of her had expected it, or something as severe, but the actual, sound of the words and knowing them to be true was harder to accept than she'd imagined. She blinked her eyes open, trying to dispel the tears, and looked sadly at Greg. "Let me help you," she said, placing her cup onto the table, "Upstairs," She nodded her head up, "Collecting the boys' things, I want to help you."

Greg nodded, "Thank you." He reached out to her and touched her arm, "I'm so sorry."

"We should send some food, for John. I can't imagine he'd leave Sherlock to eat." She said, stiffening her upper lip, and rose to her feet. "Why don't you go on up to the flat, start collecting their things while I pack something for John to eat. I'll find you once I'm done." She smiled at him as he stood, towering over her.

Nodding, Greg took that as a dismissal, as wanting a few moments to herself, and walked slowly toward the door. "Thank you for the tea," he said politely, letting himself out.

He took a deep breath as he stepped into the hallway, feeling embarrassed as he heard the high sob that escaped Mrs Hudson in the room behind as the door closed. He nodded, steeling himself, and climbed the stairs up into 221B.

He felt like an intruder as he strode into the flat through the kitchen. He flicked on the light in the archway and glanced around - the surfaces and sink were littered with beakers and used cups and Greg knew that at least eighty percent of the mess was Sherlock's. The flat was looking a lot better since John had moved in, despite Sherlock only being there a few weeks before John; Sherlock seemed to allow Mrs Hudson in a little more readily to neaten things up and John was much more domestically minded than Sherlock would ever be, but still the flat was heavily influenced by Sherlock - cluttered with science, an outward manifestation of the Consulting Detective's mind that was so often chaotic and disorganised whilst simultaneously being in exactly the right order for Sherlock, Greg often thought.

The light illuminated right into the lounge and he could see John's phone charger beside the TV. At least, he assumed it was John's, going by it being neatly wrapped up around itself, it seemed rather too tidied away for it to belong to Sherlock. He stepped in and retrieved it, clutching it in his right hand as he glanced around quickly before turning back and heading into the bedroom beyond the kitchen. Many times he'd assisted an injured or intoxicated Sherlock into this room once or twice before - and since - John's arrival and knew the navigation well. The room was tidier than he remembered it being and, as always, his eyes were drawn to the photograph on the dresser along the furthest wall of Sherlock and Mycroft as children.

Mycroft couldn't have been more than twelve, landing Sherlock somewhere around four or five. Both boys are smiling in the photograph and it always caught Greg's eye and sat warmly on his heart.

He cleared his throat and marched across the room, searching in the cupboards and beneath the bed for an overnight bag to fill. It was an odd feeling, to be searching through the draws and belongings of his friends, and even more odd was the atmosphere in the house: a fully functioning home twenty-four hours ago, it now felt empty and devoid of life. He threw clean underwear, shirts, jeans and socks into the bag for John, with a few pairs of pyjamas for Sherlock and John's laptop and charger from the bedside locker - he didn't know if it was useful, but it would be there should he want it. He tossed the phone charger in with it and fastened it up, standing with his back straight and his hands on his hips in the centre of the boys' bedroom and tried to think of something he could besides breaking down and sobbing.

Anger bubbled through him without permission but with full justification: it made no sense that they could go from inspecting a flat suspected of being used for drugs trafficking to surrounding one of their own with bullets in his back. The flat had been empty, that much he was certain of, so how did it go from empty to housing a gunman? Because he had to be there, didn't he? The shooter. It had to be that flat he was in or it was all too... coincidental. He couldn't work anything out and his anger only grew. He wanted to go to Northumberland Street and shoot the sorry son of a bitch! An eye for an eye in the most perfectly cruel of ways. And it would be just, Greg assured himself; revenge it might be to want this, but it would be just.

Shaking his head, he picked the bag up from the unmade bed and left the room, striding steadily back through the kitchen and plunged the flat back into darkness as he left, descending the stairs. He left the bag on the bottom step and turned down the corridor toward Mrs Hudson's flat. He knocked gently against the door and called out to her, "Mrs Hudson? Laurel?"

The chain and bolt slipped across before the door was pulled open and Mrs Hudson's head poked around the frame. She'd been crying, her eyes were red and her face was pale, but Greg didn't say a word. He gave her a soft, sad smile as she held out her hand to him, passing him a lunchbox. "There are sandwiches for you and John in there, and some fruit and biscuits. Make sure he eats." She nodded, "And here, a flask of tea." She handed over a Thermos.

"Thank you, John'll appreciate it. And I appreciate it," he smiled graciously despite wanting to join her in her obvious grief. 

A sad look crowded her features and she scanned the DI's face. "You'll look after them both for me, won't you?" She asked, her voice catching. "Sherlock's been, and well so has John, they've both - well, they've both been like sons to me and to know that they're hurting is hurting me but I know that you mean a lot to Sherlock, and to John, to them both...and it would mean a lot to me if you could look after them for me." 

"I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't, as their friend and as a police officer. They are in safe hands, both of them, I promise you." He kept his voice as soothing as he could, wanting to placated her frayed nerves. "And Sherlock means a lot to me, too - John too - I'll do everything I can to make sure they're both alright." 

Her brows knitted together sympathetically as she attempted to smile, "Thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade." She nodded once before turning back into her home and pushing the door closed tightly. Greg waited until he heard the locks slip back across before he left her.

He walked back down the hallway and collected the bag, pushing the treats from Mrs Hudson inside and zipped it closed again before he threw it over his shoulder. When he reached the car, he set it on the passengers seat before he fastened his seatbelt. He pushed the keys into the ignition, gripped the steering wheel and inhaled deeply, holding it a moment before pushing it forcefully from his lungs.

Everything was fucked.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a sound in the corridor outside of Sherlock's cubicle that caught John's attention, gradually getting louder until it was clear over the electrical sounds that were fast becoming more acceptable as a Sherlock sound than the in-out of the Detective’s breaths. John knew he'd heard it before, numerous times, but he couldn't make the connection in his brain as to what the sound belonged. It continued rhythmically, as though on a loop of tapping and scuffing, and then ebbed into silence. It was when the noise restarted a moment later than John's brain seemed to finally fire up and make the connection. Standing beside Sherlock's bed, he turned his upper body to look toward the walkway and wasn't surprised a bit with whom it was he saw there.

"Mycroft."

Mycroft, ever the stoical Brit, nodded his head curtly. "Doctor Watson."

John turned back to the bed as Mycroft came into the room with sure, sharp steps. "He's..."

"Yes, I've seen his notes," Mycroft cut in, his gloved hand coming up as if to physically silence the shorter man.

He left the coat hanging over his arm and his umbrella on the chair beside the door with John's coat and removed his gloves, pushing them into the coat pockets before he clasped his hands behind his back in a stereotypical middle class fashion, and walked toward Sherlock's bed. He walked right around to the other side and stood, a foot back, with his hands resting at his sides. "I can have whatever measures need to be put in place organised within twenty four hours." He said, his eyes set on Sherlock's pale, sleeping face. "New accommodation if it's required, physical therapy and equipment, whatever that might be." He looked up, his eyes settling on John.

"He's in a lot of pain but they’re doing their best to control it." John chose to talk as though the man hadn't stormed in and demanded control, as though he hadn't set about Sherlock's health by a series of business-like changes rather than asking the important questions like how he was or what was next. "He wakes occasionally but he's not lucid and though they have him medicated as much as they can, it only does so much - they're keen to be careful with what they give him, given his past addictions." He licked his lips, "They're trying to be diplomatic."

Mycroft's jaw stiffened as John ploughed over the past and then fixed the Doctor with an icy stare, "So you have spoken to his surgeons?"

John inhaled deeply and nodded his head, "Yes. They're confident there'll be no health complications long term." He began confidently, "The wound to his thigh was clean and, rather miraculously, there is no major organ damage from the bullets in his back. They’re keeping an eye on his kidneys because one of the bullets traveled slightly but his liver, spleen, stomach are all untouched which, as I said, is nothing short of a miracle." He exhaled on the small mercy, "But they are certain of paralysis. Given the nature of his injury, it's inevitable. There's no waiting for him to recover, just for him to get over the surgery and the superficial wounds before they start therapy to build up his life again." He looked up at Mycroft with bitterness in his eyes but found the man looking at his brother, Mycroft's eyes fixed on Sherlock's lightly twitching eyes.

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded, facial expression unchanging.

"Mycroft, there were three bullets. Three. No accident, no misfire or flying bullet, this was deliberate, premeditated." John spoke passionately, hoping to evoke something in the man. His voice dripped with anger and Mycroft looked up at him, their eyes crashing together. "Somebody shot your little brother, someone was trying to hurt him badly and, Jesus, Mycroft! They could have succeeded, they have succeeded. Look at him," he pointed to the bed. " _Look at him!_ "

Mycroft's brow twitched the tiniest movement and his eyes cast to Sherlock before back to John with the same, sharp stare as before. 

John shook his head, his anger bubbling as it boiled beneath the surface, "I just hope you're happy."

" _Happy_?" Mycroft's frown deepened, sharpening his eyes further. "What could there be for me to find any semblance of happiness in, Doctor Watson? My brother's life has been irreversibly damaged."

"Then show an inch of emotion, for God’s sake! It was your case!" John's hands flew out, "I told him no, I said not to get involved - international security, terrorism, drugs. I told him not to take it but he had to prove to you his mind was better. He had to be better than you!"

"He is better than I am." Mycroft snapped. "Always has been. There are things I have an acute ability for that he lacks, yes, but Sherlock has always been brilliant. He has no sense of social conformity and is free to be the brilliant person he was born as."

"Not anymore, Mycroft." John swallowed loudly, wetting his contracting, constricted throat. "In trying, as he has always done, to prove you wrong, to prove to you he isn't worth the ridiculous jibes you throw at him, in fighting for your respect, he has ruined his life." His face contorted in anger and he shook his head, his chin jutting out.

"There are a great many people in the world who are confined to a wheelchair and still successful, Doctor Watson; with his mind, there is no reason why he cannot go on as he has been in the chemistry field. Come on, you are a medical man, this is something you well know - to assume he would be unable to work, to lead a normal life, just because of an injury would be a hindrance to his success on your part." Mycroft fixed John with a condescending stare.

John twisted his lips and gripped the sides of Sherlock's bed so tightly in his anger that his knuckles paled. "Name one of these brilliant individuals who is confined to a wheelchair whose job is chasing around London city after criminals?" His entire body stiffened with more anger for Mycroft than he had ever felt toward anyone before. “You need to accept that this is your doing. Your brother is lying on a hospital bed, gravely injured. This could have been a mortuary slab!” He stared at Mycroft for a second before stalking from the room, his shoulders squared. His limp was back, small but evident, and it twinged at Mycroft's heart - such as it existed for anyone other than Sherlock - and watched John disappear into the hallway.

Mycroft cast his eyes back to Sherlock, his eyes rolling over the cuts and bruises, and took a deep breath. He leaned over the padded sides of the bed and placed a tight-lipped kiss on Sherlock's left eyelid. "I'm so sorry, little brother." He whispered.  
\- - - - - 

John planted himself in the corridor for a moment, his breathing threatening to spiral out of control, and tried to calm down. Anger seeped from every pore, his blood thumped through his body and he clenched and relaxed his fists rhythmically at his sides. Inhaling deeply to try and lower his blood pressure, he headed along the corridor toward the visitors toilet and shut himself inside. He stared at himself in the mirror adhered to the wall and continued to suck in dizzying breaths in an attempt not to vomit, brought on out of pure rage toward Mycroft. His hands gripped tightly to the small sink and the only sound to occupy him was that of the blood that pumped loudly in his ears; his face was red, his eyes wide, and he looked as awful and soulless as he felt. His resolve soon weakened and he lurched forwards, vomiting hours-old, vending machine coffee into the sink in four, painful retches.

He turned on the cold tap, his hand shaking, and flooded the sink until it cleared with cold water, scooping some into his hands to sip in an attempt to wash the taste from his mouth. The sinking in his stomach hadn't lifted, the nausea and anger hadn't subsided, but like the emotions of earlier in night, the urgency that the feelings came with had passed. Everything was broken; it was like a cruel joke that nobody was laughing at.

Gripping the sides of the sink again, this time feeling steadier, John examined his reflection in the mirror. The anger he felt at Mycroft was immense but it was absolutely nothing, comparably minuscule, to the upset he felt for Sherlock and all that they stood to lose. It was most likely that Sherlock's livelihood as a Consulting Detective, the very thing that kept his brilliance controlled to keep him sane, would cease to be, at least in the capacity with which it had dominated and defined his life to this point; he wouldn't be as free to move about the city after potential threats in a wheelchair as he would be on long, graceful legs, would he? And what was it all for? They hadn't even solved the case! And now, here they were, lumbered with another: who shot Sherlock Holmes? It was another of those jokes, John assumed. One of those jokes that was supposed to be oh-so-funny but, in which, nobody found a shred of mirth.

Still harbouring mostly anger, twined now with a pang of guilt, John knew that he'd have to talk to Mycroft. Blood was thicker than water and what he'd said - laying total blame on Mycroft - had been wrong. He straightened his jumper and glanced at his equally pale and red-cheeked face once more in the mirror before leaving the bathroom. He walked back to Sherlock's cubicle slowly, his hands in the pockets of his cords and his steps scuffed and unhurried, glancing around him at the numerous turnings down dark corridors that he passed.

But the toilets weren't so far from Sherlock's small room and he was at the arched entrance before he knew it. He peered inside and Mycroft was gone, though the mans coat and umbrella remained against the chair beside the doorway, so John knew he couldn't have gotten far. He couldn't decide whether he felt relief at that or anger, but told himself that for Sherlock, Mycroft's presence was paramount; the Consulting Detective needed all the love and support he could get right now, whomever so offered it.

Taking his hands from his pockets, John approached the bed and pushed up the sleeves of his jumper. Resting his elbows on the padded bars, he reached into the bed and took Sherlock's right hand in both of his. When Sherlock's fingers twitched and closed very loosely around John's, he took it as a sign that Sherlock had some awareness as to what was going on around him in the room, even though he wasn't fully awakened.

"Can you hear me?" he asked softly, his voice quiet and gentle. Once again, Sherlock's fingers twitched around his and a small noise escaped his mouth into the oxygen mask. "I know you're fuzzy-headed and confused, but you're OK, alright? You're going to be OK. You are hurt badly, it is serious and you're on a cocktail of drugs at the moment, that's why you feel so woozy and sleepy, but I promise you, Love, you're OK, yeah? It _will be_ OK." He held Sherlock's hand tighter, shuffling up a little higher along the bed. "Lestrade's at Baker Street right now going through your pants," He smiled with damp eyes and Sherlock gave a grumbled groan into the mask.

John watched Sherlock's face, studying for signs of pain where the Consulting Detective mightn't be able to word it. As his eyes scanned across Sherlock's, screwed closed with his brow furrowed, he watched a tear roll slowly from the corner of Sherlock's left eye and run down his cheek and disappear behind the supports.

"Hey," he reached out and pressed his fingers to the tear trail, "It's alright, I'm here."  
Sherlock gave another groan from deep in his throat and lethargically pulled his hand from John's, attempting to lift it to his face before he sluggishly dropped the heavy limb to his chest and groaned, trying to turn and face John.

John got closer to Sherlock's head and shoulders and glanced behind him before leaning over the bed and pulling the oxygen mask down from Sherlock's chin, letting it rest against his neck, "Shh, it's OK." He said softly, his hand on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock took a deep breath in, coughing a little over a moan, his nose scrunched up in discomfort. "Try to stay still," he kept his voice soft, his hand against the curls that were reachable through the straps across Sherlock's forehead to keep him in place. "Listen to me, Sherlock, it's OK but you need to try to stay still." He smoothed his thumb back and forth across Sherlock's warm forehead. "There you go," he spoke slowly as Sherlock breathed snuffly through his nose.

Keeping up the apparently soothing motion with his thumb for a while longer, John watched Sherlock succumb to the pain, medication and shock and slowly drifted back off into a thick, heavy and motionless sleep. So still was his body that John found himself watching Sherlock's chest, just to be sure. He leaned heavily against the bars, his hands in Sherlock's, watching the rhythmic misting and clearing of the oxygen mask as he breathed steadily.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood, just watching and hovering over Sherlock, but he knew it was a long time when he was disturbed by the sound of footsteps behind him. Keeping hold of Sherlock’s weighty hand, John peered over his shoulder to see a young nurse enter the room, walking toward them with a soft smile. Approaching the bed, she silently and efficiently checked Sherlock’s vitals, checked his urine output and temperature before leaving in much the same quiet manner she’d arrived in. For a moment, the only noise surrounding them was the quiet ticking of the machines and the soft squeak of the nurse’s shoes as she disappeared down the corridor.


	5. Chapter 5

When Greg finally returned to the ICU, he did so with Mycroft Holmes at his side. "I found this guy outside," he offered as his announcement when he stepped into Sherlock's cubicle, "Would have been back in a bit sooner but the overwhelming urge to smoke myself into oblivion called." He raised his brows apologetically at John.

"It's OK." John smiled, nodding politely at Mycroft.

Holding up the bag in his hands, Greg waved it in John's direction, "Yours and Sherlock's things are in there, I threw in your laptop too. And Mrs Hudson sent tea and sandwiches though I’m to call her Laurel from now on." He set the bag down onto the chair that was fast becoming a resting post of possessions and rocked nervously on his feet, his hands pushed into his pockets. His gaze moved between John and Mycroft as the elder Holmes moved around to the left side of Sherlock's bed, standing opposite John silently. "Do you need me to stay, John?" he asked, offering sincerely. "I mean, do you want me to stay?"

John turned to him fully with a small, sideways smile, "No - go home, Greg." he insisted, "Thank you for everything you've done tonight."

Greg shrugged up one shoulder and stepped closer to the bed slowly, standing up beside John, "I haven't done anything, not really."

"No, you have," John looked to him, "Honestly, you came here straight after work and stayed - you've gone above and beyond professionalism and friendship, it means a lot." He crooked another, small smile across his tired face as Greg nodded at him, embarrassed, and reached over the bars into the bed.

"You get some sleep, OK son?" Greg placed his hand nervously onto Sherlock's blanketed hip. Mycroft's jaw tightened as he watched the DI with his brother, the word used as a term of endearment toward Sherlock only serving to slap the older Holmes in the face. "Just rest and make sure you get better, alright?" He straightened and stepped back, running his right hand through his silvery hair before pushing both paws into his coat pockets, "Just call, yeah? If there's anything you need - whatever time, however big or small - just pick up the phone."

John blinked slowly and nodded a shy thank you, "Thanks, Greg."

Nodding politely in Mycroft's direction, Greg walked backwards a couple of steps before turning and exiting the small room, leaving John and Mycroft alone with Sherlock and the electrical buzz that choked the atmosphere.

John knew this was killing Greg too; seeing Sherlock sprawled out on a hospital bed was proving more than anyone knew how to handle. He wondered if it were to do with Sherlock's rocky past and the relationship that he and Lestrade had built up in it's wake. He knew there's been drug addiction and wanton behaviour, disregard for his own life, and that it was Greg - in that fatherly manner of his - who'd waded in and saved him and then sort of just stayed. Turning back to the bed, he glanced at Mycroft a moment then licked his bottom lip, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. He felt uneasy, unwelcome almost, and his earlier anger at Mycroft gave way to something more like guilt. 

"I'm sorry for the things I said earlier, I had no right at all to lay blame on you. Sherlock’s...."

"You have every right to opinions, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft cut across his apology, “and I appreciate that this is a stressful time for you just as it is for me, given all that you are to Sherlock. But it is important that you understand that, above everything, despite what is believed by the common man and Detective Inspector Lestrade when he gets the bit between his teeth about protecting poor little Sherlock here, is that Sherlock is first and foremost my brother and that is the most important aspect of all of this. I stood by him through his past mistakes and I shall stand by him through this. And, Doctor Watson, I cannot stress enough to you that there is nothing in this, absolutely nothing, that brings me even one shred of happiness."

Though his brow set firm, John could see Mycroft's chin tremble: emotions existed in the ice-cold creature after all. "He needs everybody's support, a united front. He's probably going to need it for a long time to come." John rested his arms against the bars and clasped his hands.

"You're the medical man," Mycroft's tone lightened, his body loosening almost unrecognisably. "Don't hold back the truth when I ask what lies ahead for Sherlock, if indeed the worst case scenario is realised?" John's sigh was louder and more forceful than he'd intended it to be and Mycroft's brows arched up. "Whatever the outcome, I'm sure we can bear it. Life for Sherlock as a paraplegic; how will it be?"

"Hard," John replied.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft rolled his eyes. "As a medical professional, address me as you would a doctor addressing the family of any other patient."

"I'm not Sherlock’s doctor.”

"John," Mycroft spoke up firmly, "I want the honest, open facts for my brother's future. Please?"

John took a deep breath as he nodded his head agreeably and tongued his left cheek, "Initially, it is going to be excruciatingly painful and infuriatingly difficult: Sherlock is going to hate us and everything around him and that’s something you and I will bear the brunt of. The mental changes aside, his body is going to be learning to read itself all over again. He'll need intensive physical therapy to prevent further complications with his health - without regular moment he's at risk of pressure sores, calcium build up in his blood that can lead to bladder and kidney stones, even pneumonia so it's important to build up the muscles he still has use of; his arms, his back, anything that'll help support his new position and maximise his movements. Things will be sore - he'll have agonising muscle cramps and spasms, he'll get tired as he gets used to using his body in different ways to move around." he paused to draw breath and examined Mycroft's outwardly stoic expression.

“We can deal with this.” Mycroft promised.

Clearing his throat and running his tongue over his lips in response, John went on "He's going to be learning about his body again, like a child does as they grow," he explained, "He'll have to get to know the signs of his body, of tiredness and of his personal care - if he can't feel the pressure in his bladder of needing to urinate or if he has no muscle function for bowel movements, his toileting will have to be managed with catheterisation and suppositories. He'll have to learn to take better care of his body and eat well. He'll have to negotiate washing, mobility around the home, transferring from bed into his chair, into the bath or the sofa..." he scratched his hand across the back of his neck and sighed. "But, Mycroft, the biggest thing for him is going to be his mind - until he learns and is strong enough, there's going to be an almost total loss of independence; he's going to rely on me or you for everything and he's going to get angry and depressed and we need to be prepared to deal with that, to help him through it, whether we do that ourselves or with professional help."

John watched Mycroft intently, the older man merely nodding his head as he digested the masses of information that would become what Sherlock was, his life, his statistics, what it was people saw when they looked at him before there was anything else. "I can provide counselling sessions with somebody qualified, of course." he insisted.

John nodded, "Yes, you can, but he'll only go if he wants to, and he'll only say so much. He may open up to me a bit, I think he'd talk to Greg given their relationship, or you..."

Mycroft shook his head, stopping John's line of thought, "No, Doctor Watson, if there is anything at all he needs to discuss it would be with you or the Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock and I never were ones for conversational sharing - to express ones feelings too readily was to express weakness." He gave John a smile that was both sincere and sinister. He glanced around, finally gazing to his feet, "No - if he were to talk to anyone in the familial sense, Doctor Watson, it would be you."

With that, Mycroft took a deep breath and straightened his back. The Mycroft that John had come to know seemed to zap back into the reality he'd avoided for a short while as he fastened his blazer and crossed the room to retrieve his coat and umbrella. "You're leaving?" John frowned.

"There is no use in the both of us watching him sleep," He looked John in the eye for a moment. "The moment he wakes and is lucid, call me and I will come back." He fixed his coat collar and gave John a silent nod. “I want to be around for him as much as possible.”

Unsure why, John nodded. "Of course, goodnight." 

"Goodnight, Doctor Watson."

\- - - - -

He wasn’t sure how, but at some point in the early hours of the morning John managed to nod off into a light sleep. He woke, still on his feet and leaning his weight against his arms on the bar of Sherlock’s bed, with painful spasms in his lower back and tried to contain a groan as he straightened up. He twisted his back awkwardly, trying to work out the kinks, and pushed up the sleeve of his jumper to check his watch. It was almost seven am and he assumed that a nurse, or possibly even the doctor, would be around soon. He yawned and stretched his arms up, blinking furiously to try and wake himself up a bit more. 

He rested his hands back on the bar again and tilted his head as he glanced up at Sherlock’s face. He smiled softly, his cheeks pushed up, as Sherlock’s big, grey eyes blinked back at him. “Hey,” he gushed, “Good morning.” 

Sherlock’s reply arrived slowly and muffled behind the mask, but the lettering his tongue attempted to form was deliberate and split into two, soft breaths, “Mor...ning.” 

John’s lips softened into a flat smile and his eyes misted up, “Want to take this off?” He lightly touched the mask with the fingers of his left hand. Sherlock’s nod, though miniscule, was definite. John was professional but far from clinical as he carefully worked the elastic from Sherlock's cheeks to pull the mask down, resting it to the side of his neck. "There - I can see you better now."

Sherlock blinked slowly and tried to lift his right hand to John, finding the limb too heavy and sluggishly dropped it back down. John reached down and took Sherlock's hand in his. Sherlock licked his lips, smacking his tongue inside his mouth, and blinked sleepily, "Is it bad?" His voice was painfully weak, shockingly frail.

John couldn't find the words, didn't know what to say but knew that lying was useless and counterproductive. He took a deep breath in, let it out through his nose and bit his lip. "Yeah," he nodded. "Yeah, it's not good."

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling above him, to the florescent lights that weren't on, examining the ceiling tiles in great detail. His throat hurt with the emotion he held back. His body felt different, some of it felt...of nothing. He wanted to ask, to quiz John for the facts, but his mind and mouth weren't working in sync and a tiredness like he'd never felt continued to plague him, fuzzing his mind and making it hard to keep his eyes open.

John's hand slipped out of Sherlock's and the Consulting Detective darted his wet eyes back to him. "I'll just be outside the room," he thumbed over his shoulder to the walkway, "I need to make a quick phone call. I'll be back in five minutes, OK?"

Sherlock gave as much of a nod as the brace around his neck and head would allow, blinking as he watched John back away from the bed and work his mobile from his trouser pockets.

Out in the corridor, the hospital was coming to life. John knew that at some point this morning, a Doctor would be in to confirm what everybody already knew for Sherlock's future and it made his stomach drop to his knees. He didn't want to be alone for that, unsure he could stomach the burden of the news himself, let alone carry it for Sherlock too. He rounded the corner, a short walk from the cubicle, and scrolled through the phone book on his mobile as he hid out of sight of prying eyes and listening ears. The call, thankfully, was picked up almost immediately.

"Lestrade,"

"Hi - Greg? It's John."

John heard Greg inhale sharply, "John, hi - everything alright? How's the patient?" His voice skirted close to joviality but John could hear the trepidation, too.

"Coherent," John decided, a hand rubbing the back of his aching neck. "But there's no changes, no...improvements." He licked his lips, "Listen, this call is a rather selfish one. The doctor will be doing rounds and will do some pretty standard but decisive tests on Sherlock. I'm geared up for the worst and trying to be professional but...is there - could you...?" He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger on his free hand.

"I'll get Dimmock in and race round as soon as I can, John." Greg spoke up.

John exhaled the breath he didn't even know he was holding with a long, relieved sigh. "Oh, thank you."

"No problems, John. See you soon?"

There was no spoken goodbye, each man simply waited a moment before hanging up. John pushed his phone back into his pockets and strode down the corridor toward the toilets, kicking himself for not having thought to bring his toiletries from the bag Greg had left in that night. Still, relieving the bladder he'd ignored for hours and washing his face with cool water was enough of a luxury to make him feel a little calmer, fresher and a bit more awake.

He wasted no time in getting back to Sherlock, shuffling past staff who looked infinitely more rested than he felt, and crept back into Sherlock's room. He was startled by the deep voice of a Doctor stood at Sherlock's bedside, dressed in cream trousers and a lightly checked, sky blue shirt.

There were two nurses either side of Sherlock's bed and the straps across his head and brace around his neck had been removed, the oxygen mask replaced with a small, pronged line that sat just in his nose and his head propped up, his shoulders surrounded and supported by a V-shaped pillow, the head of the bed raised slightly from it's flat position, giving him a bit more life and colour in his cheeks. The clip on his finger measuring his oxygen levels remained while the heart monitor had been moved out and the pads removed from his chest. One of the nurses was carefully helping Sherlock into a white gown with a yellow trim around the neck and arms, tucking it into his sides without moving him to fasten it round.

John cleared his throat and and held out his hand to the Doctor as he turned to him, "John Watson," he introduced himself with what he hoped was confidence.

"Doctor," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and tired and the nurse that had helped him to dress smiled with an added, light laugh.

"Yes," The doctor with his thick mustache smiled and shook John's hand. "Doctor Webber," he introduced himself. "Doctor Watson?" he asked.

"GP." John smiled.

"Fifth...," Sherlock heaved a breath, "Northumberland Fusiliers." John felt his heart swell two sizes and smiled at the sleepy-faced Detective. “Was a...soldier.”

"You've completed your exam?" John asked, nodding at Sherlock and folding his arms across his chest, wincing at the sharpness in Sherlock's eyes as one of the nurses replaced the cannula in the back of his hand and the other busied herself with a replacement catheter. "Look, I'm aware that the outlook isn't good," he lowered his tone, "But I need to know the facts, no skirting around it."

Doctor Webber responded with a calm nod, "Yes. Well, we've completed a number of motor function tests.

"Babinski?" John cut across the doctor with a rush and when Doctor Webber steeled his shoulders and shook his head, John's stomach dropped to his knees.

"He shows no sign of response in the lower quadrant. Regaining sensation or movement here now would be miraculous," he drew his hands from his pockets, his serious eyes on John. Demonstrating against his own body, he explained further. "Here," he placed his hands on his hips and moved around to the centre of his back, "The point of entry," his index and middle finger on his left hand pointed to two, close spots above the curve of his spin. "Taking into account the force with which they hit, the damage they caused and his subsequent movements following the shots, expecting anything greater than the range of movement he has now is unreasonable."

"So he has some movement?" John asked, his brows shooting up.

"No," the doctor shook his head, "I'm sorry - you misunderstand. I mean to expect him to regain more than what he has now, which appears to be complete paralysis, is naive." He brought his hands back around and brushed them down his stomach, "Numbness occurs right to the toes," he dropped his arms them reached out with his right hand, touching John's arm. "I'm sorry."

"When will you start PT?" He asked defensively. Where was Greg? He wasn't supposed to be doing this on his own.

"Soon - though the head injury he sustained wasn't serious, he will feel a little out of sorts and the medication has made him weaker and woozy. He needs to heal from surgery, too, and there's still a drain in his thigh. But the good news is there are no signs of infection, the wounds are clean and there doesn't appear to be any swelling. We will complete an ultrasound of his kidneys later today to assess their function but, in the meantime, his urine output is good. Time is of the essence, Doctor Watson, but let's give him time to rest and adjust before we tackle the big fight." He patted John's arm before peering over his shoulder, just as the nurse who had been inserting the catheter pulled the blankets back over Sherlock's hips, and nodded at Sherlock softly.

He and the nurses left together, their feet noisy on the floor but no more words uttered. John inhaled and exhaled deeply on the spot, watching Sherlock's as he fought the tiredness he felt, his eyes blinking slowly as he looked back at John. He walked close to the bed and smiled down at Sherlock, bending over the bars still pulled up for safety and laid a kiss on Sherlock's warm forehead, "You OK?"

"Tired," he admitted, "Headache." he added with a frown, "Numb."

John nodded, his eyes flooding with warm tears, and he licked his lips, "Yeah, Love, I know."

"The feeling...will come back?" Sherlock sniffed, fatigued, burrowing his head in the pillow behind him. John was reminded of a child, the way Sherlock was dopey and sleepy, innocent-faced.

Drawing his mouth to a thin line, he looked at Sherlock seriously and shook his head, blinking the tears down his cheeks. "No."

Sherlock's eyes closed slowly and John waited for the anger, the wailing, but it didn't come. Sherlock's breathing grew soft, snuffled through his nose, and he fell into a light, almost contented sleep. John felt relieved - the seeds of truth had been planted - and apprehensive at the same time: there would be a time, very soon, when he'd have this conversation again with Sherlock and the reaction would be much, much different.

Confirmation had come and that was that; life had changed irreversibly and with more conviction behind it at the doctor's words, finally settling into John's mind – finally becoming official. Sherlock was paralysed, no feeling past his hips. Sherlock could no longer walk nor read the signs of his body.   
A sarcastic laugh escaped breathily through John's nose as a thought occurred to him; would there be any physicality to their relationship anymore? It had never been a big part of their live as a couple – Sherlock was Asexual and though he loved John, sex wasn't a necessity – but was what little intimacy of a sexual nature they did have going to be possible at all?

Not walking John could get around – it changed nothing; the personal care he could do, too – he was a doctor and squeamishness and blushing didn't factor into it. But sex with Sherlock – such as it was – wouldn't be the same anymore, it would be one-sided and down to John to inform Sherlock if he even had an erection, if indeed there was even the ability to stimulate him to arousal at all. Fifty percent of the things he loved about Sherlock had gone or been damaged and all at the hands of a man John knew would never be caught. Anger wasn't the paramount emotion, but it was second only to grief.


End file.
